


healing

by heroedrey



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Gen, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, and sad bucky, and then there's russian, i dont think there're any warnings that i should put, it was going to be bucky not having a very good day, just around steve but then i needed nat to show up
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-30
Updated: 2014-08-30
Packaged: 2018-02-15 08:43:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,962
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2222739
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heroedrey/pseuds/heroedrey
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There are good days for Bucky, there are bad days. And then there's mediocre days.</p>
            </blockquote>





	healing

**Author's Note:**

> I'm having the immense need to write about Bucky Barnes and since it's late and none of my friends are on it's all unedited except by my eyes which can't be too trustworthy. Also since I'm too much of a loser to figure out how to show the Russian translations without the parentheses, the Russian translations are next to the words.

Some days are better than others, as was expected from the day Bucky showed up on Steve’s doorstep. [No one questioned how he got there, or how he found Steve. Spy skills were the assumed reason.] Occasionally there were even really, really good days. 

This was not one of those days. This was a mediocre day. One where Bucky knew that he was Bucky but still preferred to go by James because he didn’t feel like he was good enough to have that nickname, to be referred to as Steve’s best friend, to have a right to Bucky’s memories and friends and everything that went along with Bucky. A day where he could get up and pull the constantly lengthening hair [he refused to cut it like the weathering pictures of Bucky that Steve had gotten from who knows where] back in a ponytail or a bun or however he felt that day. A day where he was able to come and sit at the counter in the kitchen, even if he wasn’t able to say what he really wanted for breakfast but instead took whatever Steve set in front of him. But Steve always tried to make conversation, asking about anything he could think of, just to keep the silence from overwhelming them both. 

“How’d you sleep, Bucky?” He’d ask, chipper as he could possibly be, in an effort to keep a darkness from settling upon both of them. Somehow his voice always seemed confident and light, despite the fact that some days he was simply watching his best friend wither away in front of his eyes. 

“James.” James had to remind him, quickly eating the pancakes Steve had set in front of him. The glass of orange juice was gulped down just as quickly, almost as if he felt rushed or embarrassed about something. Or that he didn’t deserve the home cooked pancakes and true care that was going into his daily life. 

“Right, sorry, James. But you didn’t answer my question.” Steve would push and push for Bucky to talk, just trying to get one or two phrases out of him and simply get a grip on where the other was that day.  
“Fine.” One word days came around plenty, along with days of no speaking. Steve sat down across from Bucky, eating his food slowly and savoring it, while Bucky picked his dishes up carefully, he didn’t want to break them and get punished for it, and taking them over to the sink to wash them behind Steve’s back. As if that would stop the hopeful questions. 

“Well, that’s better than a bad night, right? Did you sleep the whole night?” A pause came in the constant rush of words coming from Steve’s mouth as he swallowed down pancake after pancake. There wasn’t anything that Bucky wanted to say, nothing that matter enough to say it and he simply nodded even though Steve couldn’t see him. He turns the water on as hot as it goes, and for a second simply let it rush over his flesh hand, marveling in the feeling it gave him. Eventually he pulled it out from under and grabbed the dish soap, quickly squirting a little on the plate and the inside of the glass before setting it back on the countertop. 

Simply household tasks like washing dishes and taking out the trash and making his bed were easy to do even on not so good days. Bad days, he could barely get out of bed, but on days like this it was the least he could do to wash his own dishes. 

By the time Bucky was washing the plate, Steve was talking again. “I think you’re doing better. You’re still drinking that orange juice at least, it’s supposed to be healthy even though you won’t eat other fruits. You really should, you know. Otherwise you might get sick and that could end up bad.” The clanking of the fork and knife against the plate behind Bucky affected him just as much as the words and he almost stopped washing. Catching himself just in time, he knew that if he stopped Steve would turn around and as what was wrong like he did every time, he continued, even with the frustration of washing the inside of the glass. If he wasn’t careful, he’d break another one. That would just build on the day and probably sink him even lower. Enough time passed and Steve had already finished his spew of words and his breakfast before he was finally able to pronounce the glass clean and rinse it out. 

He didn’t bother looking at Steve, he knew there would just be a forced smile on it, trying to reassure him that everything was going to be alright. His bare feet are cold against the linoleum flooring and he’s able to duck out of the kitchen without Steve saying a word. The bedroom is chilly with lingering autumn morning air coming through the completely open window, and he liked it that way. Too hot and he was sweaty all night, and too cold and he woke up with nightmares about cryo. He switched out pajama pants [Old plaid ones of Steve’s that were honestly a bit too big but had a nice drawstring on it. Anyway, he refused to go shopping so he just used Steve’s old stuff.] for sweatpants which someone had gone out to actually buy specifically for him. They fit the exact way sweatpants were supposed to and honestly that was the only thing he would wear that was actually his. Most everything else was something Steve had had in the apartment before Bucky had shown up again. An old dark blue t-shirt was pulled on along with a pair of white socks. 

Some days he’d just curl back up in bed for Steve to find a little while later simply staring at the wall, but today he forced himself to walk back out into the living room and sit down on the couch, all without making eye contact with Steve, even with the semi-open concept of the house. He assumed his normal position on the couch; right next to the right arm, feet tucked underneath him and tucked as far in to the corner of the couch as he could be, trying to take up as little room as possible. 

A few minutes later, Steve joined him, sitting away from him as on days such as this he knew very well that Bucky liked some space between him and the rest of the world. He knew it even with all the questions; all the questions that were just asked to try and get to know this man who had the body and face of someone he once knew like he knew himself. 

“How’re you doing today?” Steve offered, looking completely not at ease. Barely perched on the couch, he angled his question at the television instead of at Bucky. 

“Okay.” The word was probably better than he should say of himself, but he’d at least gotten himself out of his bedroom and into the other room versus sticking to laying in his bed and thinking all day. He never bothered to ask how Steve was, not like he might on a very good day, knowing that there wouldn’t be an answer and what was the point of wasting the words? Minutes and minutes pass in silence and eventually Steve picked himself up, walking back over to the kitchen. 

“I’m going to make lunch for you now. I’ve got to go do something important in a bit, but Natasha is going to come over and stick around until I get back. If you wanted, maybe she could stay for dinner?” There was a slight clanking of pans as Steve pulled items out of the cupboards as he was speaking. Bucky’s pulled out of the blank mind-space he’d entered at the words. 

“Maybe.” He’d prefer yes, but wasn’t confident enough in saying so. Not today, not in this mindset where anything could switch on and he’d be back in that pit of despair that he was so often in. 

“Alright, I’ll talk to her when she gets here, see if she has any other plans. I doubt she does, unless she’s got something she’s got to do later. Maybe you guys could catch up on movies or something. I’m going to make something that can be warmed up easily, so nothing gets burnt down while I’m out. Bet you’ll like it.” Steve kept talking, even with the short one-word answers he kept getting because that was what he was good at, keeping at it even when the odds were against him. 

“Maybe.” Bucky said again, sinking down further into the couch, legs sprawling slightly to the side, though he was still mostly curled up in his tight cocoon of silence. But now, at least, he could rest his head against the pillows that Steve had sitting on both sides of the couch. They were really soft, softer than the pillows Bucky had in his room and some days he wondered if he’d be allowed to switch them out. He never’d asked, though. He didn’t want to anger anyone. 

“She’ll be here around ten. Sorry about leaving, but I’ll pick up groceries on the way home. Is there anything you want?” Steve glanced over at Bucky, noting the fact that there was basically a man ignoring him on his couch, nothing new there, and sighed. Bucky still spent a moment thinking if there was anything he wanted. Was there? Maybe something of his own, something to actually call his own. But that wasn’t allowed, he couldn’t have things of his own. That wasn’t allowed, so he didn’t say anything. Maybe one day he’d be good enough to get something of his own. 

A few hours passed, the apartment in dead silence except for the breathing of the two inhabitants and the slight clinking of pots and other kitchen noises. The doorbell rang, Natasha always rang as she never knew how it was going in that particular apartment, and Steve [who had just finished whatever he’d been doing, Bucky had no idea.] quickly answered it. It startled Bucky out of his blank mindset he’d settled into once more. Quick muttering was inaudible to him, and he heard the slight shimmer of Steve’s shield as he picked it up. The zip of a zipper, which must belong to his jacket, and the opening of the door. All accompanied by muttering. The door closed and the lock clicked. And yet Bucky still didn’t move. 

Natasha is careful to be in Bucky’s line of vision before she spoke, quiet Russian words flowing off of her tongue perfectly.“вы хотите поговорить?”[do you want to talk?] He carefully looked up, taking in her face for a moment before pushing himself upright and sitting up straight instead of laying down. She took a light seat next to him, close but not too close. 

“нет.” [ no ] The Russian fell of his tongue almost as easily, and he’s still in one word answers. 

“Вы хотите, чтобы я говорить на русском или английском?” [ do you want me to speak in russian or English?] She asked him carefully, perfectly capable and willing to do either. He pulled his feet back underneath him, despite his previous thoughts to sit up like he wasn’t a child. 

“Я не волнует.” [ I don’t care] Even though he continues in Russian, he really doesn’t know. He can’t form an opinion today, nothing in his mind is telling him he has the right to. If it were Steve there, he’d sign. But that’s not Natasha. 

“James, you’ve got to try. Steve said you were having an off day, but you can’t just let the off days take over and make you like this all the time. I know you have good days, it’s just that it seems that the not so good days over power them. You know how hard this all is on Steve, right?” At that point he nodded, refusing to look at her, though. “I thought so. Can’t you try harder?” 

“Я пытаюсь изо всех сил.” [ I’m trying my best.] It was the wrong thing for her to say, and she knew it immediately after the words left her lips and his were shot back. More than he’d said the rest of the day combined. “Это тяжело.” [it’s hard] 

“James, I’m sorry.” She replied immediately, almost stumbling over his words. He didn’t want to talk, and he decided he wasn’t going to. His feet plant firmly on the floor and he pushed himself up. “Don’t hole yourself away again, try to do something. Is there anything you like doing?” It stopped him for a moment, but then he shook his head. 

It isn’t a bad day, and it isn’t a good day, and it most certainly isn’t a very good day. It’s a mediocre day. And he had himself a babysitter with too much history. 

He settled himself down in his bed, simply lying on top of the neatly made covers, and staring at the wall. Like he stared at so many walls so often now-a-days. After a little bit, he could hear the TV. switch on.  
A while later, Bucky had no idea of the time and he hadn’t bothered to check when he’d come in earlier, and following microwave noises, Natasha came in, knocking lightly on the doorframe. “Время есть.” [ time to eat] It took Bucky longer than it should have to peel himself off of the bed and get into the kitchen sitting at the same chair he sat at for breakfast, hours ago. A plate was already set there, steaming hot lasagna sitting with a fork next to it. The time it took him to eat was longer than normal on mediocre days, almost as if he’d lost the will to do almost anything. To even sit there and eat the food. “James, eat the food.” To him, it almost sounded like an order and that he could listen to and he ate everything on the plate. 

But he can’t even stand up to wash the plate and he felt the day slipping out between his fingers with nothing for him to do about it. Like he was watching his own life fade away from someone else’s body.  
“Can someone really help me?” He doesn’t speak until Natasha has finished her lunch, and he’s greeted with an immediate look of confusion before it’s covered up with spy-like reflexes. 

“What do you mean, James?” A part of Natasha’s language is referring to him as James as often as she can. Maybe she believed it would calm him and help him open up if someone is calling him by the name he preferred. He stopped talking and simply stared at the countertop in front of him. Natasha cleared away the plates, leaving them in the sink for Steve to wash later as she felt she might actually be getting somewhere with James, maybe that slight look into what he thought every day. 

He didn’t speak for half an hour after that, but also didn’t move. The only sign that he wasn’t a well-made wax figure was the rise and fall of his chest and the slight trembles that went through his body occasionally. Natasha kept her spot across from him, the one normally filled by Steve. 

“Maybe Bucky is unreachable and all everyone is stuck with is me.” He finally told her, a slight tilt of his head accompanied his words and once again it’s almost as if he’s speaking of another person who was long buried inside of the same body. Which wasn’t too far from the truth. 

“James, no matter what happens. No matter who you end up being when everything is all over, don’t ever think we’re simply stuck with you. We’re all here and helping you. Steve and Sam more, ‘cause they’re good guys like that. You and me both know that, they’re the good guys around here and they know what they’re doing most days. And no matter what, they’re still going to be there for you.” He frowned at her, slightly confused why she was leaving herself out of it. 

He’d exhausted the words he would use in that day, and simply left it at that. He stood up, moving slowly back to the living room and sitting on the floor in front of the couch, legs crossed and he simply sat there, as if there’s no world around him. Nothing happening in the streets below, no sounds of anything. Like he was there and he was an island both never affected and affected too much by the world around him.  
When Steve finally clambered back into his apartment, Sam in tow, he was greeted with a surprisingly peaceful sight. One that didn’t come often with Bucky in such a delicate state. Bucky’s bun was out, and Natasha’s fingers were absently combing through the hair from above where she was laying sideways on the couch. They both seemed to be in their own world, everything else was silent and Sam elbowed Steve for breaking that silence. 

Natasha turned around after a moment, and a breath of a touch was administered to Bucky’s right shoulder, a murmur of something in what Steve supposed was Russian in Bucky’s left ear and she got up to walk over to them. 

“He’s worried, Steve. That no one will want him around if he’s not the same person he’s seen in all those newsreels and heard stories about.” Steve was about to protest loudly, but Natasha held up a hand. “He’s doing good right now. It might now look it, but he’s okay.”


End file.
